Gérard escorted them to the ship. Lala saw a man waiting for them on the deck. A man in a chef’s uniform, complete with the traditional tall, puffy hat that Lala always felt made the wearer look like a character in a Disney cartoon. A man who looked exactly like Gérard.
“Chers amis, je vous présente mon frère, Lucas.” Gérard said.
Lucas took Lala’s hand and kissed it. Then he kissed Marie-Laure on both cheeks. Lala’s jaw had not yet reconnected with her upper lip.
“You have an identical twin brother?” Lala said. “I mean, obviously you do. I guess I’m trying to convey that I’m amazed I didn’t know that.”
Why am I amazed? Lala thought. We worked together. I was in love with Gérard. He liked me okay. And had a girlfriend. And still has the same one. And he never shared any personal information with me, because why would he? Hey, Lucas, want to hear something funny? You and your bro look exactly like my dead husband!
“Okay, enough inner monologue,” Lala said. “Let’s shift this shindig into high gear, shall we?”
Lucas escorted them to a small dining room where a table was set for four. He led them to the bar area of the room and popped open a bottle of champagne. He filled five glasses.
“Is this your yacht, Lucas?” Lala asked. “And you’re a chef? How cool! When did you decide you wanted to be a chef? What’s your favorite part about being a chef? I bet you have some really fun chef stories, huh? I’d love to hear them sometime!”
Lucas smiled nervously.
“My English. Not so good as my brother’s,” he said.
“Oh, that’s okay,” Lala said. “I’ll speak French!”
“No, no, no,” Gérard said. “I’ll be happy to translate.”
Lala was already too tipsy to be offended.
“Fine, fine, je ne vais pas parler français, ya big sensitive baby. Wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s big sensitive baby ears. This champagne is lovely!”
The yacht began its voyage on the Seine. The room had floor-to-ceiling windows, so the bar and their table had unobstructed views of all the monuments that were beautifully lit along the river.
Gérard and Marie-Laure had informed Lucas that Lala was a vegetarian, and the evening’s repast was a tribute to the culinary delights of the legume and the noodle and the herb-based-broth sauce.
Chocolate soufflé, thankfully, was and always had been vegetarian.
Over dessert, Lala found herself noticing that Clive was giving her glances that could best be described as quite adorably furtive.
“Why haven’t I mentioned earlier that you look lovely?” he said.
“You did, actually,” Lala said. “When you picked me up.”
“Well, it bears repeating.”
Lala saw Gérard and Marie-Laure smile at each other.
Have I told them that I’m engaged-to-be-engaged? Lala silently asked herself. God, that sounds so stupid.
“My dears, what are you doing to celebrate le Quatorze Juillet?” Marie-Laure asked.
“Also known as Bastille Day,” Lala elucidated for Clive in a stage whisper.
“Yes, love, thank you, quite aware of that,” Clive said. He smiled, wrapped Lala’s hand in his, and kissed it. Lala noted that this affectionate gesture was met with approving nods from Gérard and Marie-Laure.
Maybe I forgot to tell them about my fiancé-to-be-my-fiancé, and I sound demented even saying that in my mind, don’t I?
“Gérard and I are having a party chez sa grand-mère in Reims.”
“Reims as in the Champagne Region Reims?” Lala gasped. “Clive, we have to go!”
The yacht brought them back to their point of embarkation. There were hugs and thanks by the shore, and Lala kissed Lucas on both cheeks more than twice. She just kept going back and forth between either side of his mouth with loud smacking noises that divided the words in her rapid and hushed sentences.
“That . . . was . . . the . . . best . . . dinner . . . I . . . have . . . ever . . . had . . . mon . . . trop . . . cher Lucas!”
The limousine brought Gérard and Marie-Laure to their building on the way back to Lala’s apartment, and the evening’s penultimate leave-taking abounded with copious, sincere, and gushing thanks, and with promises to get together again very soon, for fun and, as Marie-Laure initiated, to discuss having Lala’s novel translated into French.
On the way to Lala’s street, Lala asked Clive if he would mind if the chauffeur dropped them off by the river so they could take in her favorite view of Notre Dame before the evening ended.
Standing by the Seine, Lala nearly wept, as she was always fearing she might do, from the timeless beauty of Paris. A strong wind came off the water, and she shivered. Clive took his jacket off and wrapped it around her and hugged her to keep her warm and the next thing she knew, they were kissing and trying to do the equivalent of a body snatching science fiction classic wherein they were the only two people in the world in danger of having their souls physically invaded by an outside force, that outside force being embodied in the person right there next to them.
They were neither of them in any rush to break away from each other. When they finally did, Lala spoke first.
“That,” she said, “was nice.”
“Very nice,” Clive agreed.
“Very, very nice.”
“Very, very, very nice.”
“You can’t walk me home.”
“Lala, I am not going to let you walk home alone at this hour.”
“You can walk ten feet behind me. And you can stand in the entrance to the courtyard and watch me walk into my building. That’s my best offer, pal.”
Lala and Clive would remain affectionate friends for the rest of their long lives. They would always stay in touch and would be closer in their relationship on numerous occasions, depending mostly on proximity through work and changing mutual social circles. It would be at the Academy Awards ceremony during which Lala made history as the oldest person to ever win an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay that the first and only time they would reference the stolen kisses they had shared in Paris so many years earlier would occur.
Clive would be nominated for the second time for Best Supporting Actor for his role as the crotchety grandfather with a heart of gold in the screen adaptation of Lala’s bestselling novel, A Woman of a Certain Age, which had taken longer to get the green-light for production than anyone had expected. By the time the director yelled his first “Action!” on the set, Clive would be too old to play the character his glib comment about Lala’s age had inspired when he first said it in Paris. And he would whine mightily about that fact.
“It’s not fair! Ageism in Hollywood isn’t fair!”
“Are you fucking kidding me,” Lala would respond. “You’re just now realizing this? Welcome to every female actor in history’s world, my pouty friend. Now memorize your role and hush up.”
Standing in line next to each other at the bar during a break in the awards ceremony, Lala would introduce a major non sequitur into their discussion of the insane property values in Malibu that they were both benefiting from.
“You kissed me. In Paris. Repeatedly.”
“Oh, my dear Lala, you were the one who kissed me. Repeatedly. In Paris.”
“You leaned in first.”
“I beg to differ. I distinctly remember you leaning in first.”
“Nuh uh.”
“Uh huh.”
“Shut up. Hi, may I have another champagne, please? Aren’t you adorable? What’s your name, sweetheart? Want to be one of my adopted nephews? I should warn you, it is not the easiest gig on the planet . . .”
And Another
The sun had only recently appeared on the horizon. It was, in Lala’s words to one of the production assistants on the set, “colder than fuck out here.” And yet Lala was feeling cozy and th
rilled. She was on location at a horse farm, where they would be filming the scene she wrote as payment for the real estate blackmail her building’s former owner had demanded in order to be willing to sell her the haven for feral cats that was now hers.
The set that day was a mini-family reunion, when “family” is defined as people you have around you because you want to, not because you have to. Clive, of course, was there. He looked as tired as Lala felt because it had been late when they had gotten back to their respective homes after their yacht adventure the night before.
Lala was terrified when she first saw him, and then indescribably relieved when he appeared to have agreed—without any communication regarding the subject actually occurring between them—to pretend nothing unusual had happened.
“Hey, how are ya?” Clive had called out when he first saw Lala.
“Great! You?”
“Great!”
“Cool! Well, I won’t keep you! I imagine you’re wanted in the make-up tent, huh?”
Matthew was there. Lala had, in the course of visiting the various film sets, grown quite fond of him. His brother, Atticus Finch (that never got old for Lala, and she generally insisted on calling him by his full name whenever they spoke, which made Atticus giggle with embarrassed delight), was also on the set, having come along for the fun of it and to help out if any rewrites were needed. His boyfriend (his definitely committed boyfriend and there would probably be a wedding in the near future), Lala’s much-adored neighbor and highly-valued employee and wonderfully-dedicated rescue colleague Kenny, was there to help with craft services. Kenny had brought three large trays of his superb croissants and strawberry jam for breakfast. Lala ate five of them before shooting started.
Clément Barrault, the former owner of Lala’s building, had gotten there before anyone else. He had arrived at the location while it was still very dark out and almost walked smack into the side of a barn because it was so hard to see anything.
Though this would be Clément’s first turn as an actor at the age of sixty-seven, he would prove to be a consummate professional that day. He had all his lines down letter-perfect. He would help the other actors run their lines during the breaks between shots. He was warm and cheerful, and he actively sought ways to make the day’s experience pleasant and successful for everyone. They all fell in love with him.
Clément would be nominated for an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for his performance in that one scene in the film version of Lala’s novel, despite the fact that his screen time in the final edit would be far shorter, clocking in at just under two minutes, than that of any actor who had been nominated to date.
He would not win. In an unprecedented slate of nominees, there would be two non-Americans who were also non-Brits nominated for Best Supporting Actor, and Clément would lose to an astonishingly brilliant performance by “that kid from that weird Finnish sitcom,” as Lala had christened young Kalevi Korhonen. But the acting bug would have taken hold for the rest of Clément’s life, and he would transfer his passion to the stage, becoming, in very short order, one of the resident character actors at the acclaimed Comédie Française.
His daughter, who would remain grudgingly devoted to her duties as the caretaker of an aging parent, would post a major hissy fit whenever her father’s theatrical fame in the French capital would garner more attention than her own brittle beauty could muster from the public. Which was all the time. Because Clément was adorable and everyone in his audience treasured him. And because Celestine would remain exceptionally off-putting for the rest of her life.
Lala had left for the set too early that morning to Skype with David. Which was a blessing in her unstable world because it gave her more time to convince herself that her make-out session with a handsome British movie star had not in actual fact occurred and had only been an entirely innocent, drunken hallucination. She was determined to prove to herself that the more you told yourself a lie, the more it would set you free.
The early morning segment of the shoot went very smoothly. Clément’s and Clive’s characters stood at the entrance to the barn while they were grooming their horses and had an intense conversation wherein the older man shared his insights about life and all the risks that committing to love involved. And also tennis. The characters talked about tennis a lot.
That part about tennis ended up on the cutting room floor. Matthew explained that it was “just a wee bit off topic, but clever, very clever, kiddos” when Lala and Atticus whined about their best punchlines being cut.
The sun was strong that day, and the lunch break was like a wonderful picnic. Matthew had a very continental view of the atmosphere he wanted on his set, and since there was no stunt work to be done that day, some lovely French white wine was served along with the multi-table spread of salads and pastas and fruits and breads.
With the agreement of the cast and crew, the production had become cruelty-free as a result of Lala’s impassioned promotion of animal welfare. Which had only made Lala love them all that much more.
Lala had a delightful conversation with the owners of the farm, an older couple who had lived in Chicago for many years before they returned to their native land to take over the farm they had inherited from the wife’s family. Lala and the location scout had chosen the property to film because the family raised only crops there . . . all the animals at the farm—horses, goats, bunnies—were family pets. For Lala, being there was like being in kindness heaven.
Henri and Edith, the farm’s owners, spoke impeccable English. The subject of Lala speaking French never came up during their chat.
The afternoon shoot was to begin with Clément and Clive sharing tea and intense conversation. The dialogue in the scene about competitive ping pong would be cut in the editing room. Lala and Atticus would complain that Matthew was deleting some of their best stuff. Matthew would tell them to shut their mewling pie-holes already, a comment he would make with tremendous affection. Years later, Lala, would give a speech at an American Film Institute tribute to Matthew’s work and would thank him for their many superb collaborations and for “editing the shit out of my work, which always made it leaner and meaner and funnier and better.”
Just before the scene was about to begin shooting, Lala caught sight of something, and what she saw got her to twitching. With delight.
“Wabbits,” she whispered.
Switching her seat to the periphery of the next scene had brought Lala within view of a small outdoor structure that looked like a cottage out of the Brothers Grimm. A little girl was sitting on the steps leading up to the cottage. She had a basket on her lap. Lala could see the impossibly adorable heads of little baby rabbits poking out over the top of the basket. She was instantly oblivious to the need to comport herself professionally on set. Thankfully, though, she sprinted in the direction of the cottage moments before Matthew yelled “Action!” Her exit didn’t create a disruption.
Lala passed by a craft services table on her path and grabbed a gorgeous red apple. She took a big and delicious bite.
Am I remembering this correctly? Lala thought. I think baby rabbits are called kittens. OMIGOD, they are adorable!
Lala stopped in front of the little girl. She smiled at her, and the little girl smiled back. She held up one of the rabbits.
Okay, no need to frighten her with my mangling of her beautiful language. Let’s get this out of the way right up front.
“Tu parles anglais?” Lala asked.
Lala saw the little girl’s eyes widen with mirth and mischief. The next thing she was aware of was a hard substance butting her butt. She stumbled forward and had to brace herself not to fall flat on her face.
Lala twirled around and saw a large goat looking up at her with fierce determination. She had a brief moment during which she remembered, on a superficial level of understanding, that one of the worst things you could do when confronted by an aggressive animal who
could outrun you without breaking a sweat was to flee.
“FUUUUUUUCK!” Lala screamed.
The cast and crew all turned in the direction of her dismay. Matthew yelled “Cut!” Lala was unaware of all of this because her heart was pounding so desperately as she turned and ran as fast as she could.
She had no plan in mind other than to keep running. She heard a ruckus behind her.
“Throw the apple away!”
“He’s not chasing you!”
“He just wants the apple!”
“Okay, seriously,” Lala said. Lala instantly realized that speaking aloud was not a good decision, as it only made her feel more winded.
Seriously, she thought. I can’t hear a word any of you are saying.
“LALA!” she heard a chorus of voices yell.
It’s possible that the excessively pumping oxygen had made her delirious, because her next decision was also a bad one. She turned on her heels and yelled back at the cast and crew.
“WHAT?”
Running backward for even the small amount of time that it took to launch that monosyllable slowed Lala down enough for the goat to catch up with her and butt her thighs. Down she went in a backward crumble.
“Oof,” she said.
The goat calmly took the apple out of her hand and trotted away happily with it in his mouth. Lala lifted her head and stared at his retreat.
“That’s what you wanted?” she gasped. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
Lala let her head fall back down on the ground just as a herd of people came running over to her.
“Don’t move!” Matthew yelled.
The crew paramedics had Lala on a stretcher in no time.
“I’m fine! Thanks for worrying, but I’m fine!”
“Just stay put and let them make sure you haven’t damaged anything,” Matthew ordered. He walked beside Lala as she was carried inside the farmers’ house.
“Did I screw up the shoot?” Lala asked.
“Of course you screwed up the shoot. We could see you running around like a lunatic in the background. And then there was all that yelling. So, yeah, we’re gonna need to start all over again.”
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